digging radishes in winter

Fingerless gloves in communion with a gas heater.  Water boils, steeps in dry plants, quiet talk.

Light is warming sacks of grain, from a harvest a summer past, and bamboo stalks rise like organ pipes I don’t know what for.  And through the panes of glass are thick grains of ice snow-piled high.

The decision is made to dig for radishes.

Snowshoes are declined, surplus shovels, and the snow is deep.  There should be a map, with an X and maybe pirates.

But there aren’t.

Beneath, sweet sweet radishes.  There’s a lesson here.  But it should never be named, and no one should ever tell where the radishes were buried.  Alive.

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